


Olivine and Amethyst

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Anal Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Bodily Fluids, Cultist Tekhartha Zenyatta, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sentai Genji Shimada, Tentacles, Teratophilia, but it ends up being false, since tentacle sex, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 17:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14140791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: Genji tries to make something of himself after the accident, but nothing is ever so easy.





	Olivine and Amethyst

**Author's Note:**

> A commission for omnicode! Thanks so much. ; w ;

****Genji’s life stabilizes after becoming Green Sentai.

For one, the job gets him out of his apartment, a far cry from the lavish living quarters he took for granted as a child. It also helps him sleep; there’s no room for deep introspection after a long night of fighting crime. What’s left of his social life suffers, sure, but he’s self-conscious now after the accident, and most people approach him as an omnic anyway. Maybe at twenty-six, he has finally matured, just not in the way the clan envisioned. Not like it matters. The last of their empire had fallen when his brother abandoned it.

For now, Genji turns his thoughts from the past and focuses on something easier.

Easier are the battles with flashy villains and monsters, ones who didn’t deal in predatory loans and black market weaponry, who perform their crimes in the spotlight. These are the confrontations that quicken Genji’s blood, his need for adrenaline and thoughtlessness funneled into a calling that helps more than just himself.

He makes new friends on the job, as close to co-workers as he’s ever had. D.Va and her partner Lúcio, Masked Vigilante, who prefers to work alone but buys him drinks after hard fought battles. The smell of tobacco as he sips cheap whiskey is a comforting end to the night.

Being a hero is easy, everything reduced to black and white, good versus evil.

The appearance of the Cultist changes everything.

* * *

The Emergency Hero System notifies them of a monster terrorizing Hanamura’s coastal area. The battle is short; Genji’s just warming up when they subdue the beast and hand it over to the authorities. Vigilante heads out before him with a tip of his hat. He probably practices the motion in a mirror just to make sure it looks cool.

Genji lingers, not ready to go home just yet, following the crash of the waves, enjoying the give of the sand beneath his feet. It’s rare that the beach is so empty, but the police cordoned off the shoreline, giving him a rare chance to experience it.

The air is warm, but a chill clings to the wind and hurries the clouds across the bright crescent moon. He releases the bottom part of his helmet and breathes in the salt and spray of the air, the rush of battle mellowing into enjoyable, gentle fatigue.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

He half-turns to stare down the shoreline. Moonshine dims behind the clouds. A sliver of motion, fabric in the wind. The clouds recede, and a chill crawls up his spine.

Two beads of ectoplasmic green bore into him, shrouded in a deep violet hood. His mind cannot piece together the wriggling mass beneath those eyes, tentacle-like but mechanical, the same shade of eerie light glowing from their depths.

“Who are you?” Genji yells. “We already defeated your friend, so don’t think you’ll be able to take me alone.”

The figure stands motionless while his tentacles twist and curl, his robes fluttering in the wind. Genji can’t even tell how tall he is, the ambient light of the city and moon transformed into a nightmarish glow.

“So quick to dismiss me as another threat.” Rumbles a voice, shockingly deep, sounding much closer than it should.

Genji drops into stance, fingers balanced on his wakizashi as the creature walks towards him, each step dulled by the crashing waves. The strange orbs around his throat begin to move, rolling in a tight circle. The segments catch in the light, shining and shuddering, vertical slits pulsing and settling on a fixed point: Genji himself.

“Stop right there! This is your last warning.”

“You are smarter than you appear.” There’s a pleasant lilt to his words. Teasing. “It is wise to be afraid. If I wanted to take you—”

Genji starts. The figure is gone. Then those eyes, near blinding, are inches from his face.

“I would do so in an instant.”

Genji swings his weapon, fear squeezing his guts, but the creature’s hand, mechanical and unbelievably strong, grabs his forearm.

The tentacles shudder and seize, extending toward his lips. A plume of green mist, much like spores, burst in the air between them.

He admonishes himself the instant he inhales the strange, tingling sweetness, a perfume on his tongue. His mask snaps into place, but it’s too late.

The pressure on his arm disappears, and then there is only Green Sentai, trembling and angered along the dark shore, the strange sensation lingering in his mouth.

* * *

Mercy is wide awake when he reaches her hidden facility. She runs tests. The night’s events repeat over and over in his mind. Each time the strange fear doesn’t lessen.

“Your vitals appear normal.” She sighs. “Never take your helmet off like that, Genji. Or at least don’t go on missions alone. Between you and Jesse I can hardly sleep at night.”

“Forgive me, Angela.” Genji murmurs, idly tracing his lower lip with a gloved finger.

“Come back for a follow-up in two days. And if anything feels out of the ordinary, call me.”

* * *

He doesn’t sleep that night, doesn’t sleep well in the days to come. When exhaustion finally steals him, he’s met with green eyes and a ghostly, lilting voice, tentacles balanced at his lips.

What’s worse is that the creature won’t leave him alone in the real world either. He follows Genji on missions, always far off, nearly hidden but omnipresent. He must have access to the EHS, but there’s no way he could be a hero of all things, not with the way he looked at him.

Bright. Hungry.

Genji shudders.

The strangest part is that the creature never interferes. Sometimes Genji never sees him at all, but he always feel him, the familiar prickling along his spine, a sensation reserved for the robed omnic.

For a few, terrifying days, he wonders if the creature is a figment of his imagination. Then he begins appearing in holofeeds, blurry images, green and violet smears. They even have a name for him:

The Cultist.

“Quite the moniker, right?” Jesse murmurs into his glass when he peers over Genji’s shoulder. “Bit of a spooky fellow.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Only in the papers. You?”

Genji minimizes the screen and takes a hard pull of his drink.

* * *

The dreams change.

The space between tentacles and skin disappears. Warm, but slightly cooler on their underside, wet and tingling against his lips. Genji moans as the soft, mechanical tip slides past his teeth and squirms over his tongue.

He opens his eyes, every inch of him covered in a sickly sheen of sweat. Genji tugs his blankets tighter and waits for the ache between his legs to fade.

* * *

The lack of sleep makes him sloppy, but he pulls through.

Until he doesn’t.

He’s alone, and there are more thugs than the report suggested. His punch is a fraction too slow. The man parries, and a fist catches the side of his head, staggering him for a precious second.

It’s the opening they need. A flurry of blows sends him to the filthy pavement, the twilight of the city a blur behind the masked figures surrounding him.

The first kick slams into his stomach. His suit is made for agility and reconnaissance, and Genji heaves, unable to suck in a proper breath.

A wave of nausea settles on him like a thick blanket, but no more blows land. A miasma, thick and palpable, shrouds the dark alleyway, the swears of the thugs hissed and frightened. Genji’s never felt anything like it, a weight squashing his chest.

He failed. His family never planned on accepting him. Hanzo is dead.

He would die here.

When the sensation ebbs, the men scramble.

He can hear his own breathing, sharp, hurt pulls of air through his mask. The men are gone, but he is not alone.

Footsteps. The jingle of metal. He’s never heard the chains before, the steps. He swallows as the shadow descends over him, mouth tingling. He can taste him.

A hand extends.

Genji smacks it away, scrambling to his feet. His back hits cold stone.

“It seems you are less injured than I assumed.” The strange humor of Genji’s dreams echoes in each syllable.

“Why...why do you keep following me?”

Genji clutches his side, flinching when the Cultist reaches for him. The orbs focus on him, blinking in tandem.

“You are interesting, Green Sentai.” He draws close, slow but undeniable. “I sense something in you. You are not a hero, not truly.”

Genji’s heart pounds in his throat. Those dual points of green overtake his logic, pinned without a single thing against him.

Tipped fingers ghost over his hand balanced on his stomach, and he freezes, eyelashes fluttering as warm gold emanates from the Cultist’s palm.

“What’re you doing…” A breath, a plea.

The heat spreads, pain receding like a wave. He can almost smell the humid air of the shore. It centers in his gut, spiders upward through his chest and neck, skin breaking into gooseflesh, shivering into something deeper.

His suit is skin tight, but his body fights against it, chest tightening, a familiar ache blooming between his thighs. He grabs the Cultist’s wrist, but he can’t dislodge his hold.

“I want to give you an opportunity.”

The Cultist leans in, and Genji’s helmet clacks against the stone as he turns his head to the side. The first drag of the tentacles along his throat shocks him, nearly as warm as his hand, the sensation smooth and slithery, wetting the outside of his suit. His gasp is muffled by the sound of fabric and chains as the Cultist’s thigh slides between his own, a hard pressure against his armor and rapidly fattening cock beneath.

“This is only a game for you.”

The tentacles part around his neck, pressing and clutching, the very tips mapping beneath his helmet, seeking skin, sliding over the clasp as the warmth spreads down his legs and into his toes, his fingertips, ears and cheeks burning.

“Something that distracts you from your true purpose.”

The Cultist grinds his thigh against him, and Genji wheezes through his helmet, so helpless even with his armor, his weapons, his training. He could fight back. He should. But as each second passes by with desire pulsing through his body like a heartbeat, hot like basking naked in the sun, he only shakes and stutters.

Those strange, haunting eyes disappear as he dips his head into the divot of his neck, tentacles twisting at the edges of his vision, smothered by the heat of this omnic creature who still isn’t hurting him, only touching and teasing and grinding, and he can’t breathe—

“Consider what I have said.” The words are so close they seem to echo solely in his mind, but it’s impossible, he’s overwhelmed, doesn’t know what’s happening. “How much can this life afford you happiness? I offer something greater.”

The Cultist releases him, steps back into a long shadow. Only the glow of his eyes linger, an afterimage, as his presence fades.

Genji slides down the wall, whole body tingling and aching, on edge and alive like he hasn’t felt in years. He tastes copper as he fumbles for the latch to his modesty panel, taking his segmented cock in hand for the first time in weeks, not since the shore, not since the Cultist. He clutches his helmet while he comes over his fist in a few harsh, wet tugs, his breath, his heart, finally quieting enough that the sounds of the city filter back into his awareness, the footsteps, the voices.

He cannot help but stroke himself a few more times before sliding his armor back in place, a quiet swear muffled into his helmet.

* * *

Genji should visit Angela again, but he doesn’t. Whatever madness that’s poisoning his mind is too intoxicating to ignore. There is a strange hope in it, a desperation. Had he really been so lost?

Doubt resettles when he responds to EHS alerts and for the first time, the presence of the Cultist is gone. A weight off his chest, a kind of crazed euphoria. The feeling doesn’t last, days turning into weeks. The dreams are but whispers, but he takes himself in hand, slides back his panel completely, teasing fingers against the humid clutch of his valve when he wakes from nightmare turned dreams.

* * *

EHS sends out a call, but only Green Sentai answers. The warehouse is abandoned when he reaches it, derelict and dusty like it’s been untouched for years.

He shivers. Familiar. Deliciously chilling his spine.

“Show yourself.” Genji says, the sound of his voice echoing off the distant, metal walls.

“You can sense my presence. How exciting.” The Cultist’s voice sounds from behind him. Too close, always too close.  

He allows Genji the chance to whip around, put distance between them. Genji slides into stance, unable to fight the instinct gnawing at his nerves, another part of him wanting to do something else entirely.

The Cultist stands with fingertips pressed together, tilting his head as his tentacles twist and orbs twirl.

“Have you considered my proposition?”

The only light is the moonshine filtering through the high windows, and the Cultist uses it to his full advantage, violent violet and vivid greens, bright like a predator.

“Me, become a villain?”

“Only if that is how you perceive it.” The Cutlist spreads his hands, palm up, to each side. “I have never caused harm, not truly. Nor have I interfered in your work. One could even say that I aided your efforts.”

“You did something to me.” Genji growls, feet cementing to the floor as the Cultist stills, orbs resuming their lazy rotations. “That first night. The mist. What was that?”

The Cultist is upon him in an instant. Genji’s wakizashi clatters to the ground, and there is no room to draw Ryu Ichimonji.

The Cultist stares down the scant inch that separates their heights, making Genji feel smaller by far with his gaze.

“You think I poisoned you?”

“I cannot sleep ever since that night. I always feel you around me. I dream of you—”

The Cultist laughs, low and dark, tentacles twisting in time.

“Sweet Sentai, the mist you describe is merely how I cool my systems.”

Genji freezes, taking a single step back. The Cultist fills the space immediately.

“How very splendid.” Fingers precede tentacles, grasping Genji’s chin, tracing along the hidden line of his jaw. “Your dreams...your awareness of me...they are manifestations of your inherent desire.”

His helmet releases and recedes with a hiss. Genji gasps into the stale air. His body screams at him to move, but he can only stare into his eyes, hanging on each word like an undeniable truth.

Fingers whisper along his chin, carding through his stubble. The tentacles extend, and it’s like each time in his dream, blending into reality so imperceptibly he’s sure he will wake up in seconds, sweating and painfully, pathetically needy. The tips of his tentacles find his lower lip as he speaks his next words.

“Your soul is crying out for metamorphosis.”  

Bite. Struggle. Anything. The Cultist’s servos find the small of his back, gentle pressure to match the tentacle flexing against his mouth, teasing the soft flesh of his lips, pressing, brushing—

“But you have known this all along, Genji.”

Genji gasps and plays right into the Cultist’s hands. A tentacle surges, finding the wet space of his mouth, catching against his tongue, so much like a kiss he answers it. Soft, playful even, he can feel its segments, the underside velvet smooth and slick. He grazes his teeth against its tip, and the omnic shudders, the other tentacles curling and flicking around his chin.

He knows his name. What else did the Cultist know about him? Enough, enough, and it should be frightening. His body calls out for him, onlining faster than he thought possible. Genji fights the need to unlatch himself, the ache between his legs heady and near painful.

A chill at his back, old shelving groaning quietly under his weight as the omnic presses him into it. Genji whimpers when the tentacle recedes, mouth empty, pulsing for more.

“W-wait—”

But the Cultist is already sliding down his body, dropping to his knees in front of him.

O-oh.

He steams in a startling hiss, blood pounding. His fingers lock on the omnic’s shoulders.

His tentacles trace over his codpiece, flicking and rolling. Genji can’t feel it but his body aches, imagining, wanting.

“Please—” He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

Genji watches, enraptured as the tentacles slide over his armor, tugging and tearing the thin material covering his modesty panel. He claps his hand over his mouth, moan rattling his teeth.

His own slick trickles from the panel’s seams, and the Cultist teases along them, the gentle slime of the appendages gathering Genji’s slick, enhancing the glow of him with his own mess.

“Pretty, needy thing.” The Cultist sighs, his orbs staring up at him while his true eyes focus between his thighs. “Show me.”

Genji opens himself with shaking fingers, his cock releasing at an embarrassing speed, his valve dripping onto the tentacles that have already shifted to feel it, tease its lips, map its perimeter.

The Cultist curls his tentacles around his cock, like hands but softer, slippery and near frictionless. The cyborg groans, high and hard, mind soaring as the tentacles flatten suddenly, smearing over his cock and beneath, still teasing, prodding his hole and even lower, more secretive, between his cheeks. They focus here, wetting the small, hidden pucker with a few drags of their green undersides, flushing Genji’s cheeks with their intent.

“Let me give you everything.”

His fingers fist into the Cultist’s hood while the other squeezes the shelf behind him, the tentacles undulating, laving everywhere at once. Each point of pleasure bursts into another, his lower body a furnace; the Cultist shifts up on his knees, then warm, impossible heat suckles his cock down. Only the tightened grip of a tentacle keeps him from spilling into the omnic’s throat in the first few seconds, his moaned pleas mortifying but unstoppable.

A smart sound vibrates around him, a laugh, maybe, or a moan echoing his own pathetic warbles. Those tipped fingers find his valve, but only surround it, spreading him open, lower tentacles dipping inside, sensors flaring as one wriggles deeper, doing little more than lick shallowly, stimulating something that has his hips fucking forward.

“O-oh, god—fuck—please—!!”

As obvious as a nod or word of affirmation, the Cultist sucks him to the base, holding, throat convulsing as the tentacle penetrates him deeper, quick, shallow flutters, and Genji’s legs quake with it, hardly able to stand upright if not for how hard the Cultist holds him against the shelving.

He comes undone, cum spilling down his tight throat in hot, rapturous pulses, each longer and more potent than the last. He loses his balance, but the Cultist doesn’t let him fall, supports him as he goes boneless, easing him to the floor. Only then does he slide off his cock with a sigh, Genji’s lower body coated in green, translucent slime.

Genji’s still hazy when the Cultist unclasps the chains at his waist and shifts the fabric of his pants down. A hiss, the sound of something soft hitting metal. He situates Genji’s thighs before hauling him into his lap.

For a moment, Genji isn’t sure what he’s feeling, instead of only a hot, stiff cock there are more quick, twisting caresses, more than hands and fingers, familiar. He blinks down into the thatch of tentacles surrounding the omnic’s segmented cock; his single, stilted gasp is wild and high.

“Patience.”

His hands seal around the cyborg’s hips, cock sliding against Genji’s. Genji grasps the Cultist’s forearms and growls, begging with his body, his words a destructive jumble trapped in his throat. He’s lifted, gentle and sure, and when he feels the kiss of the omnic’s cock he only sighs, needy, doing his best to keep his hips still.

The whole while the Cultist murmurs sweet things, his name, secret words that are japanese but not at all, something infinitely older, and there is a comfort in their ancient existence, the sudden, unspoken knowledge that they would survive him as well. As each inch of his valve is lovingly filled with such tender, precious care, the tentacles stroke his cock and tease into his ass. The Cultist stares and stares, eyes narrowed and tentacles flicking, agitated, focused with singular intent.

It’s too much, his gaze when their hips meet and he’s fully speared on his cock, the tentacles wriggling into his ass at the same time, spreading and claiming with equal intensity. The Cultist wipes his tears with a stray tentacle, and Genji stammers, unsure when his visor was removed, unsure when he had started crying. The Cultist soothes him with his touch as he lifts his hips again, setting a deep, slow rhythm that curls Genji’s toes.

He buries his face into the omnic’s shoulder, hands twisting around his back and holding as he’s filled and filled and filled, tentacles cradling his head and neck while he takes everything Genji gives and more.

Genji comes, an almost distant sensation when everything feels so alive, the push-slide-suck along every inch of his lower body, the Cultist chirping into his ear. More tentacles tease at his stretched rim, and it should hurt, but he is not human anymore; his ass spreads nearly as easy as his valve when more of the Cultist’s tentacles tease into him, his synthetic voice hitching, so desperate and soft that it brings Genji closer to another end.

The rocking of their bodies slows to a crawl, the insistence of the tentacles grinding deeper consuming him. They press with a mind of their own, reach further than the Cultist’s cock nestled in his valve, the touch so intimate that every twist and shift seems too much. Genji craves it, cries for more, savoring each writhing, greedy appendage.

The Cultist grants his promises, answers his prayers. His cloak is wet against his face, his tears, Genji realizes with a distant thought, palpable relief, a release of more than just his body.

And isn’t that what the Cultist had offered him?

The Cultist comes, and so much time has passed Genji can scarcely remember the night, the days previous, anything before being clutched in the omnic’s arms as he floods his body. His insides burn with it, delicious and deep, the tentacles locking in place as the Cultist shudders through his orgasm. They hold each other tight as the sensation steal them both, the return to reality so slow Genji wonders truly if this is just another chapter of his dream.

“Come with me, Genji.” The Cultist says, softly, with the weight of the world.

He almost seems to float in his arms, safe, comforted for the first time since he was a child.

Genji nods his surrender into the Cultist’s chest.


End file.
